Something To Talk About
by sleepy eyed
Summary: The residents of Murder House sit down to watch some television. Whatever's premiering on FX catches their attention.


**A/N: **Hey guys! First of all, sorry I've been so MIA lately. School is taking up ALL my time. But I really wanted to get something teensy done before the next season of AHS starts. I am excited for the new season, but know that it will in no way compare to my burning love for Violate and Murder House. Now it's back to homework for me.

In addition to this ficlet, **Scarlettwoman710** and I are slowly working on a companion piece to **The Curve Of Her Lips**, just a fun one-shot.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

"Somebody paid the fucking cable bill?" Tate gapes disbelievingly and flops down onto the couch, speaking over Violet's indignant huff when his head hits her lap. "Anything good on?"

Violet's scowl is a smile from where he's looking, but soon enough she's combing little fingers through his nest of curls and flipping through the channels.

"Boring, boring. Stupid. Boring, Jesus - no."

They quietly watch the screen blink from scene to scene, the fizzle of each channel change drawing more and more ghosts into the family room until they're stacked up on both couches with a few slumped back against shins on the floor.

"Ooh, do we get HBO?" Chad drawls from where he's perched on the arm of a couch, predictably with a wineglass in tow.

Vivien frowns. "I don't think so."

"No T-and-A in tonight's forecast then," Hayden says, wedged between Patrick and Nora. There is a chorus of mournful sighs.

At some point in their endless surfing, Elizabeth and Moira get up to make popcorn and call out from the kitchen if anyone wants drinks; Ben and Pat sip beers and Violet teases Tate with her root beer float.

"Tate, ew! Get your fucking fingers out of my float!" She wails, slapping at his hand when it reaches into her cup for ice cream. He recoils to pout, but minutes later has a vanilla smile and sticky lips.

The on-screen guide is broken so there's no info for anything. They just scroll, scroll, scroll past re-runs of Friends and That 70's Show, shows about interior design and cupcakes, Jersey Shore and a hundred shitty movies that never came out in the theaters.

Bundled in blankets, lights off, rain loud against the windows, everyone is content to soak in the much-missed sight of cable television for a while.

it's the exterminator who breaks first. "Jesus - just pick something!"

And they do, but only because Violet turns to level him with a glare and chucks the remote hard enough to send the batteries springing out and under the couch.

Hayden makes a barb about anger management, but quiets down when Pat gives her a warning elbow in the ribs.

Whatever it is they've picked, it's fucking weird. The opening credits are creepy as hell and the whole show's set inside a looney bin way back when.

"Are we really watching this?" Chad moans after five minutes, wineglass empty, teeth stained red.

"Yeah, what the hell."

"Who thinks this shit up?"

"That nympho chick is hot." Tate points out, which earns him a slap on the ear and a grumpy. "shut up," from Violet, who eats her words a beat later when the next character is introduced.

"Who's that?" she wonders out loud in a voice that makes Tate's stomach churn. Her hands go still in his hair.

He watches her watch the screen, eyes bright with the glow of it, unblinking and transfixed. She's really into this "Kit" character.

"He looks like you," she says distractedly when Tate still hasn't tuned back to the tv, her reason why. But that doesn't make it any easier on Tate because, holy shit, she's right. Not that he'd admit it.

"Nu uh," he says petulantly, shutting out the others' hums of agreement.

Violet sighs. "Come on! Same dark eyes, straight nose, jaw. And those lips..."

"But look at that dude's hair! How old is he, twelve?" It's pathetic how childish Tate looks with his arms crossed over his chest and his head still in her lap. "What a tool."

Brian and Troy peek their heads in then to ask what's going on, but are shooed out immediately by Vivien. "This isn't a show for children," she says softly, and ushers them back towards the basement where Lorraine and the girls are making jack o'lanterns.

Violet must notice Tate's horribly masked jealousy, because after Kit's scene is over, she unsticks her gaze from the screen and turns her eyes on the boy who's pillowed himself on her legs.

"Don't worry, I like you better," she coos sweetly, tucking and re-tucking an errant curl behind his ear. He just glares up from under worried brows and tries to stay serious even after she thumbs at his lower lip that's been jut out in a pout.

The others, engrossed already in the show, ignore their bickering, except for Travis, who offers his two cents with a harmless smile.

"I like your hair, man."

Tate has to smile at that, because Travis is a fucking puppy dog and how could he not find every dumb little thing that comes out of his pretty mouth endearing?

"Thanks," Tate grins, and then Violet is pressing her smile to his, the angle awkward because of their positions, but neither of them care.

Violet's thirty second crush is forgiven already, but it helps that Kit is more or less tortured a few scenes later.

* * *

"Never again," Tate says when it's over and everyone else has wandered out of the room to their beds.

Violet rolls her eyes, but throws a pillow at the tv to shut it off, leaving them tangled up in the dark.

"I'd hit it," she says, shrugs, but then she can't say anything at all because Tate's popped up and dragged her down to lay out along the couch and covered her up with himself.

"No way. What do you want with that dark-haired goon?" He puts his mouth all over her face; eyelid, cheek, the tip of her nose. "Everybody knows that blondes have more fun." And then they're kissing, doctors and nurses and patients forgotten in favor of what's real and right here; a dead boy and a dead girl in love.


End file.
